Three days ago I took the liberty of shutting off all the utilities
feeding into my apartment. First the electricity, then the gas,
then the water. Last month I received the final notices and the
dates for termination of service. The refrigerator has been empty
for so long that there was no reason to clean it out first; not
that I would have bothered anyway. A nice lady in a dress with a
flower print and a fake smile from the Salvation Army gave me some
tapered candles a while back. I dug them out before I cut the power,
and the blonde teenybopper who works at the convenience store on
the corner two blocks from here gave me enough free matchbooks to
burn down an asbestos skyscraper.

The late
summer heat should keep me from freezing to death, and I can get water
as I need it from the hose in the alley behind the building. I can see
myself regressing into a primitive state. My basic survival instincts
are oozing to the surface. They begin to manifest themselves as aggressive
paranoia. Anticipating the arrival of the coveralled servicemen who
will inevitably stop by to do what my premature handy work has already
accomplished, I placed invisible fishing line tripwire in the hall.
They would give under the pressure of a foot or a shin, and four cans
of mace would drench the walls and the floor and the poor sap who just
popped in to do his job. Its only a matter of time now. A slow
wait that you get used to in the same way that professional snipers
or anyone dealing with a bureaucracy does. I spent hours perfecting
the trap. I tested it on myself first without the mace. If one does
eventually get through my perimeter defenses, all that will be waiting
for them is to see that their task is already complete. Thatll
show the smug bastards. As the hours pass, I reflect on the setting
sun. I watch it from my living room window. It blasts in through the
smudged glass uninhibited by clouds or even smog to reflect off of the
dull metal of my ancient typewriter. The heat is trapped by the glass
and my apartment becomes a pseudo greenhouse.

The dark corners at my back hold indescribable secrets in the darkness;
undisclosed by the absence of revealing light. I havent eaten
anything in a couple of days. I last slept just before the disconnection
project. The time between then and now was filled with the placement
of the booby traps. I suddenly realize that I cant recall the
last time I blinked. The sun over the city outside fills my steady vision
from the worn desk chair that holds my perfectly still form. There is
no way to know how long I have been staring at it. I shift my gaze to
the lifeless typewriter. The letters on the keys have almost all worn
completely away into a blank uniform gray. That doesnt bother
me, because I have long since memorized the character assigned to each
individual button. Ribbon is difficult to find for this model, but not
impossible and also not too expensive. There are stacks of boxes containing
fresh sealed ink ribbons under the table the typewriter sits on. It
mocks me with its inactivity. The fresh sheet of pure white paper
has rested blankly at the ready for months. For more of that time than
I care to recall Ive sat staring at it, waiting for the substance
to surface and place itself through my fingers onto the paper. Nothing.
I turn my head to face the sun once again, and I strain my hearing to
pick up sounds from the hallway. Theyre coming for me. I can feel
it in my bones.

The letters their companies sent me look and read so similarly that
they could have all come from the same place. Perhaps they did. Men
in matching ties and blazers with shiny black leather shoes could quite
possibly have gathered over a round oak table with a thick plate of
glass fastened securely to its top to discuss my accounts. Their impatience
at my failure to pay them may have triggered a chain reaction that caused
them to form a special committee to handle the matter with what they
believe to be smooth efficiency. Little do they know I have already
taken matters into my own hands, thereby stealing the petty thrill of
the servicemen who get their kicks from cutting off modern conveniences
from the downtrodden. I shake my head furiously to clear it of the creeping
paranoia.

Several times I think I hear footsteps on the stairs down
the hall, but after the anxious wait there is nothing but empty silence
roaring over the sounds of the city below. Everything is perfectly still.
My breathing doesnt even disturb the bulk of the sheet of paper
hanging limply over the back of the typewriter. A sympathetic friend
I have known since high school mailed me some drugs a while back, but
theyre all gone now. I even ate the seeds. No one Ive met
in the city ever comes by. Even the landlord doesnt care. I havent
paid him in since I paid the utilities, but hes on a cruise, and
he may or may not come back this year. Ive limited all human contact
to next to nothing to keep my mind clear for the words needed to fill
the paper. I begin to search my memory for the plots and characters
of the books Ive read. Still nothing. Emptiness. Blank, bland
and hollow.

My stomach growls and I jump at the sudden break in the silence. I come
to my senses and notice that Im no longer in the chair. The sun
is almost gone now. The late darkness of summer is creeping over the
city. It soaks the light out of the apartment like a sponge. I move
almost without my own volition toward the window. Closer and closer.
The sun continues to sink. My face is inches from the glass. I move
painfully slowly toward the outside as the sun sinks farther and slowly
disappears. As it vanishes behind the dull brick building across the
street, I feel my nose press against the cool glass. It pulls me from
my trance and suddenly fills me with terror. I frantically search for
the candles, but they arent where I thought they were. Edging
upon madness, I strike a match and scour the floor and the furniture
for the tapered wax sticks. Fleeting moments between matches burning
out send me into near hysteria.